Bonnets Stories

St. Margaret’s Vicarage, Stratton-Over-Wye, Spring 1784 What bliss, thought Lucy Whitmore as she listened to the birdsong in the slightly unkempt vicarage garden. Even if she racked her brains, she couldn’t remember the last time she had a quiet minute to herself. What with a growing family and a clerical husband whose door was always open for the needy or just plain talkative, together with an eternally hopeless housekee...

A hint of petticoat,A wisp of lace,Dear, tell me soThen I'll pick up the pace.A glimpse of ankle,Even bare shoulder,Now, to be frank, I'llBecome even bolder.Slide my hand to your gartersAnd that's only for starters,To stroke your bare thighWith a passionate sigh.Sweeting, I'd write a Petrarchan sonnetIf only you'd let me take off your bonnet.

There was a jangling of the bell as they walked into the bookshop. Godfrey gallantly stood back to allow Eugenia through the doorway as he took off his hat. He then followed her to greet the shopkeeper who was seated at his desk. The white-haired, portly, bespectacled Mr Johnson rose to shake Godfrey’s hand warmly and gave a slightly more muted, old-fashioned bow towards Eugenia, as was proper towards the wife of a favour...